


Edinburgh

by White_Rabbits_Clock



Series: Winter [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2016-01-29
Packaged: 2018-05-16 23:06:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5844478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/White_Rabbits_Clock/pseuds/White_Rabbits_Clock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock doesn't always get what he wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Edinburgh

SHERLOCK

 

This is not working out the way you thought it would, but, on reflection, it’s rather more fun now, isn’t it? He won’t come with you. For a short time, yes, but not entirely. He refuses to simply leave. He refuses to do anything you tell him to; only if you phrase it nicely. You wonder if he aims to train you like a child or if he is simply that proud.

It’s summer, and you detest it. You hate the crackling dryness of the warmer months. Normally, you would have retreated to your own manor, hidden and run down amongst the stubborn, well-faring plants of the cold. He, however, has managed in no time what could take your brother months: draw you out.

Unlike many of his aristocratic acquaintances, he wears trousers. They are sturdy things, made for activity and not for beauty, though someone had certainly kept its attractiveness in mind when said garment was cut. He’s wearing braces under his waistcoat, the collar of which stands up. 

Quite suddenly, he’s staring directly at you, though you are invisible. He opens the window. He never quite closes all the holes in his quarters, so you could have entered at any time you like, but you appreciate his action none the less.

You endeavor not to surprise him, though you could follow him for hours without detection, so a rush of cool air accompanies your arrival. As usual, you’re wearing silk, and he has chosen wool. Moneyed as he is, now, he was still a soldier and a doctor before plants burst from the ground and from his body and identified him as one of the few gifted Londoners, so he’s no more likely to wear silk (without a great deal of manhandling, of which no one will do) than you are to wear burlap. 

“Watson,” you greet him with a short bow. He returns it and slides on the next layer of his suit. 

“What have you got now?”

“A riddle.” The insides of Watson’s eyes arch a bit- a single pulse of surprise.

“What’s the riddle?”

“Three gentlemen who are neither family nor enemies nor business associates nor friends ingest the same sort of poison and die of asphyxiation,” for effect, you smoothly slide into the armchair he keeps by the very window you entered through. You cross one leg over the other and set the tips of your fingers together in front of your mouth.

“Why?” You can tell he’s both impressed and exasperated with you. His face gets very still the way it usually does when he begins to think very deeply.

“I don’t know,” he says, finally.

“Neither do I,” you say, “but I will know shortly.”

“So you do have something else to do besides asking me to drop everything and run after you.” His dry voice is delightful. Not many can pull it off around you.

“Of course I do, but you agreed to do said running as much as possible. Besides, I’m practically rescuing you from death by snobbery.” Watson does not move, simply arching an eyebrow.

“Come now, do you want a murder or a dance?” He turns his face towards the window, the neutral colors of his clothing seem brighter and more vibrant in the early morning sunny heat pouring through the now-closed window. His carefully combed hair and short beard are both blond and silvering ever so slightly. 

“Murder, I suppose.”

“Excellant. Collect a bag, doctor, we leave for Edinburgh shortly. A carriage already awaits” Watson gives you one more look, as if to warn, before he takes up a quick gait to finish readying himself. You calculate the chances of needing to stop for sustenance and decided that such a thing is relatively low, since this is a man who once made a habit of pulling eighteen hour shifts in a medical tent in the middle of war-torn Flanders, and so went without nourishment for most of that time. 

You can here him finish his preparations in much less time that it would have taken you to gather your things by hand. He does not check to see if you trail him- he knows you will. Instead, he steps into the street and raises a hand.

He mounts the steps into the cab and settles into the seat after he gives the driver an appraising but subtle all the same look. You blow gently in and settle next to Watson. 

“Mister Holmes, dear, the next time you wish for a carriage across the country, arrange with a little more time,” the old woman across from you and your assistant is the same one who looks after your manor when you are absent.

“Miss Hudson, it was nothing less than a surprise to myself.” You give her a moment to consider that before rushing on, so she will forget the question on the tip of her tongue. “Miss Hudson, I introduce to you John Watson, doctor and retired captain in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers and, as of the past year and a half, Charmer of the Autumn Order.” The doctor dips his head.

“My pleasure, Madam.”

“It’s good to make your acquaintance and to see that Master Holmes has a friend.”

“We are colleagues, Miss Hudson,”

“Of course, dear,” the rest of the ride passes in silence and, with the exception of depositing your housekeeper at an establishment in town, without interruption. You’d not have bothered, but the disrepair of the manor house is not good for an elderly woman such as Miss Hudson, and you’d prefer her alive and absent for the time being than there when you arrive with her lungs straining against the press of dilapidation. 

You turn to him when you have but a few hours left.

“Tell me about Flanders, if you please.” He regards you seriously, all sense of propriety left outside the carriage door.

“Very well,” he answers. You settle in. You get the sense that he will be good in the telling.


End file.
